Tears for the Living
by sardonicsmiley
Summary: When Goodwin had been alive he had slept beside her. EkoAna. Missing scene from The Other 48 Days. Please, read the story and tell me how much you hate it. I am that hungry for reviews. I'm having quiet alot of fun with this couple now.
1. Chapter 1

1Tears for the Living

A/N: Let me first say I'm sure this isn't gonna be all that popular, as I'm one of the few people who actually really like Ana-Lucia. Also, this was inspired by someone over in the TWoP forums that complained about that fact that MR does not look pretty when she cries. And the fact that I ship EkoAna. And the fact that I'm a dork.

Summary: She does not cry prettily, and somehow that makes it so much more painful.

He follows her to the stream, expecting her to wash her hands, or collect water for the group, or just keep walking, forever, away from the corpse she left behind. She does none of those things. He watches her sink down, watches her shoulders shake once, twice, and approaches without thinking about invading her privacy. She turns to look at him when he sits, barks out, "What're you lookin' at?"

He speaks and they are not the words he expected to say, but they are gone now, and she is looking at him, her expression torn between incredulity and amusement and a sadness so deep that he cannot see the bottom of it. She says, "You talking now?" and there is a bite in her voice. He has heard her be gentle, with the children once upon a time, and with Bernard because sometimes the older man gets confused, but that it is a rare occurrence. Under her skin she is razor sharp.

He smiles at her, just a small smile, and it feels alien on his lips, and says, "It has been forty days."

She turns away from him sharply, and he thinks that she probably did not want to reminder of those who first went missing, and of the dead bodies of his attempted captors. He can still remember the warmth of their blood on his arms when he tries, and so most of the time he does not try. There are some things a man would be better off forgetting. When she says, "You waited forty days to talk?" her voice is thick, and when he leans forward to see her face her mouth is open as she struggles to take slow deep breathes. It looks like she's screaming. But there is no sound.

He says, "You waited forty days to cry."

There is a long, timeless moment, as she stares at him, her mouth still open, her hands balled into fists at her sides. There is a tear, and then another, chasing each other down her cheek, and he feels the warmth of her arm beneath his hand without even realizing he has moved. She does not cry prettily, and somehow that makes it so much more painful. More real.

It is easy to hold her. Easy how small she is against his chest, how tiny she looks with his arms around her. Easy to absorb the shock of her body wracking with sobs that are still queerly silent. It is so easy. Dangerously easy. It is something that he could make a habit of without thought or intention, and he wonders about that as her tears trace hot lines down his arms and chest.

After a time she stops, and sags against him, though even now he can feel the tension in her shoulders. He turns her face up towards his, and there are still tears, thin, silent things that slip out of her eyes and slid around the curve of her cheek and into her mouth, which is still open as she struggles for breath or silently screams. She does not cry prettily, and he could not respect her more for that.

He puts a big hand on either side of her head, feels the curls of her hair beneath his palms and marvels in it, uses his thumbs to brush away the tears, and says, "Everything will be alright. You will see." And after a moment she nods, and sniffles, and closes her mouth, and the crying is done as quickly as that. She is Ana, and her sharp edges slide towards the surface. But his hands are still cradling her head, and he wonders why that is.

Finally she smiles, just a half-smile, one side of her mouth stretching upwards, but it meets her eyes and that's all that matters, really. She places a hand on his cheek, mirroring him, and the smile grows, just marginally. She says, "I'll hold you to that."

And then she is twisting away from him and standing, and offering him a hand up, that odd smile still on her lips.

She does not cry prettily, but when she smiles he has never seen anything as beautiful.


	2. Something Better

1Something Better

A/N: Hey, so I was wrong, a lot more people are tolerant of the EkoAna thing than I thought. Yay! Consider this a sequel to Tears for the Living, though I'm just going to add it as a chapter since they're both so short. Hey, is there any other EkoAna stuff around? Also, really wanted to thank my reviewers on the first installment, here's to you, nykky, Illyria, xlostangelx, AmazinglyMe, Coolio02, nikki-da-latina, Jade, bobcat 22, Dione, and Syrinx. Know that my spellchecker has angry red lines drawn under all of you. Remember, I am desperately starved for attention, review even if you hate it and you'll find the love of your life and your hair will grow back and you'll get your dream job! Ok...maybe not. Summary: When Goodwin had been alive he slept beside her.

Warnings: None to speak of.

When Goodwin had been alive he slept beside her.

She wasn't sure how or why that had happened, but from the beginning he had been there, casting a faint warmth on her left side. She had gotten used to it, just like she had gotten used to his easy smiles, and the way of smooth capableness he had. She wasn't, honestly, sure which she would miss the most. For forty days she had been lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing, and relied on him in the waking hours to do the things that she didn't think to do. Which seemed to be many and varied.

When Goodwin had been alive he slept beside her.

He's dead now, though, and as the sun sinks and she lowers herself to the ground she finds herself staring at the place that had been his. She wonders, fleetingly, how cold she would be this night. There is a creeping sadness low in her belly, making her nauseous, but there are no tears. She's spent all of her tears now. Her companions settle into their usual places, and she grits her teeth and curses the fact that the one thing she regrets about killing him is that she will miss the sound of his breathing as he sleeps.

She stretches out onto her back, closes her eyes, and opens them again when she hears someone exhale beside her.

Eko is stretched out beside her, his long body dark as the night that surrounds them. He lays flat on his back, staring up into the night sky, and she watches his chest rise and fall for a long moment, remembering the warmth of his arms around her this afternoon by the stream. She growls out, "What do you think you're doing?" And at first he doesn't answer her. When he does turn towards her the whites of his eyes are almost luminescent, as is the flash of his teeth when his lips twist up into a smile.

"I am preparing to sleep..." he pauses, stretches as if to prove it, "How are you feeling?"

She shrugs, lets her eyes slip closed again. She is suddenly bone tired, and the warmth radiating off of Eko's big frame is almost certainly to blame for that. She has always slept so much easier when warm. With a sigh, she lets her mind go quiet, till the only things she's aware of are the jungle sounds and the whisper of his breath by her side.

Eko puts off much more heat than Goodwin ever did.

She sleeps.

When she wakes it is still dark, and the air embracing her is chilled, the wind is blowing off of the water, moist and cool and raising gooseflesh on her arms. She hates the cold. It takes her a moment, as she struggles with lucidity, to realize that there is a band of warmth around her waist. Confused, sleep still hanging heavily on the corners of her mind, she stares down at her waist, trying to make out the cause of the unfamiliar weight on her skin. It's only when she slides a hand down, probing, that she realizes.

Eko's arm is draped over her, although he is still separated from her by several inches. It makes her smirk, as she wonders if he slung his arm over her while he was awake or if it was done in his dreams. And then, as she always does, she pushes past the less important trappings of the action, past the motivation if there was one, past everything till only the crux of the matter is left: He is warm. She is cold. To her, everything is always simple, and so she doesn't hesitate to slide up against him. His skin is velvet smooth, and smells like salt and sweat and man. He is, also, deliciously warm.

She snuggles closer, till her back is melded against his chest, and his breath is dancing against the back of her neck, and she feels blessedly warm. She sleeps.

When Goodwin had been alive he had slept beside her.

God, this is better.


End file.
